


ages and ages

by witchertrashbag (intothegarbagechute)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Oral Sex, Power Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Spanking, Teacher/Student Roleplay, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Topping from the Bottom, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:06:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24116974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intothegarbagechute/pseuds/witchertrashbag
Summary: From the moment Jaskier approached his table, he's always smelled thick and heady with arousal-- part of being eighteen, Geralt supposed. He used to stay in a dark corner of a sad tavern and drink to distract himself while the Jaskier finished his songs, plopped down at the table across from him and pouted, then turned his most lovelorn look at a pretty maid. Geralt drank deep as Jaskier whispered sweet nothings and soft, dark promises to her, felt the heat grow in the room as the blush rose in them both and they fumbled away. By the time he could hear Jaskier coming-- panting, hot and fast-- he usually found the shattered remains of his tankard in his fist.Geralt can hear all of Jaskier's amorous encounters... and finds he can't bring himself to stay out of earshot.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 274
Kudos: 865
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	1. the ache in my heart is for you

**Author's Note:**

> I will update tags as I post new chapters, which will be weekly on Sundays.

_Jaskier is only eighteen_.

Geralt keeps reminding himself, over and over, as the man-- _boy, he's practically a boy--_ relentlessly follows in his wake after their exchange with the elf-king. Geralt's heightened senses are precisely attuned to Jaskier; he's constantly mindful of how fragile humans are, what a risk it is to be near a hunting Witcher.

Those same heightened senses are also currently to blame for the strain on his pants and the slowly pooling ache deep within him, as he listens to the aspiring bard and his current romance in a bedroom half a mile away.

From the moment Jaskier approached his table, he's always smelled thick and heady with arousal-- part of being eighteen, Geralt supposed. He used to stay in a dark corner of a sad tavern and drink to distract himself while the Jaskier finished his songs, plopped down at the table across from him and pouted, then turned his most lovelorn look at a pretty maid. Geralt drank deep as Jaskier whispered sweet nothings and soft, dark promises to her, felt the heat grow in the room as the blush rose in them both and they fumbled away. By the time he could hear Jaskier coming-- panting, hot and fast-- he usually found the shattered remains of his tankard in his fist.

So now he's taken to sitting alone, in the woods, as far as he can bring himself to go outside whatever village they're staying in.

But it's never far enough. He can never bring himself to go quite out of earshot, out of range of hearing Jaskier. The need to hear his breath-- if he closes his eyes Geralt can almost feel it on his skin, feel the man's pulse beneath his lips, his long body trembling beneath his touch.

_Boy. He's basically a boy._

And Geralt is hard in his leathers. Rain begins to fall; horrible and unrelenting as Jaskier, but cold. Geralt opens his eyes and tries to focus on his immediate surroundings. He tries, as he's tried for the last two months Jaskier's been following him, not to think of his soft, pale throat as he hears an unmistakable moan rumble through it. Of Jaskier's lips as he whispers his simple, urgent desires into the girl's ear. Of his nimble fingers and what, exactly, they're doing to elicit such soft gasps. 

Geralt hears two deep, ragged moans, a hiss as Jaskier fills the girl in what is clearly her first time, the sweet encouragement he gives her as they move together.

He tries to focus on the cold rain, but his dick is hard, aching, demanding. He convinces himself he's far enough away as he gets it out, just to grip it hard. He leaks as he hears Jaskier's moans grow, can't help but buck into his own hand at the sound.

" _You're so-- so wonderful-- oh fuck!"_ Jaskier moans breathlessly as he comes.

Geralt comes hard in the dark woods-- everything is harsh and cold as he opens his eyes and realizes what he's done.

He needs to leave. The young bard will be safer without him, without _this_ , without the unforgiving, angry eyes of villagers, the whispers about the Butcher that follow him like miasma. It's four days' hard ride to a town with a sweet harlot named Ginny who's large and soft and _nothing like the boy._ He should leave right now--

Geralt hears Jaskier humming softly to his lover, and he rests back against a sodden tree. He'll wait. He'll lie to him in the morning.

______________________________________

_He's only twenty-four._

And he looks _good._ The six years since they've parted have been kind to the bard. For one, he's actually a bard now. His epic-- however grossly embellished-- of their adventure in Dol Blathanna is a favorite everywhere, a tale Geralt can't escape. Humans still keep their distance, and he still turns heads when he walks into villages, but some of them are curious now, appraising from a distance. No longer closing their gates to the Butcher of Blaviken, another diseased boogeyman from Kaer Morhen, a story to scare their children into obedience.

Geralt came upon Jaskier again in a small town square on market day, and the way his blue eyes gleamed when he saw Geralt made him feel... uncomfortable. The scent of arousal was still thick around him, almost sweltering. Geralt has been very careful to keep his distance, remain gruff. 

Jaskier, by contrast, is flirtatious as ever, his lean body toned and sun-kissed from walking across the Continent. His seductions have gotten better, too, and Geralt has found himself pleased he can't blush at the filthy things the bard has been whispering into the ears of maidens, married women, stable boys, older men... he seems to have expanded his palate in the last six years.

And his abilities.

The first evening after the market, Geralt found his usual dark corner to watch the bard perform, hidden in shadow. He even gave him a quiet smile when Jaskier returned with two tankards of ale (on the house-- something Geralt has never been granted). But as the evening wore on, he could see him get restless, see something in him withdraw, saw his blue eyes wander.

Geralt made the mistake of staying in the tavern for far too long.

Jaskier's stamina and repertoire have both grown-- Geralt curses softly in the dark, under the stars now, and slaps himself hard across the face. It's yet another night fighting his body to obey him, another night spent just within earshot of the bard and his dalliance with the town alderman this time, a married man who watched Jaskier hungrily as he performed for his family, Geralt in attendance at the side.

Geralt hears the bard gasp rather deliciously as the alderman turns and presses him against a wall in his stable, hears Jaskier moan as he fingers himself open, surely letting the alderman watch, surely painting a sinful picture in the faint moonlight. A picture Geralt can't get out of his mind: those long limbs angled and pressed against the wall, Jaskier showing himself off obscenely. His soft throat bare and aching to be bitten, licked, adored.

Geralt's cock is in his fist again, and he hates himself for it. How can he travel beside this _still very young_ man again tomorrow, knowing what he's doing tonight? What he keeps doing?

He hears Jaskier groan, knows the alderman's cock is pressing into him, and he arches into his fist. He hears Jaskier pant so clearly it's like he's right beside him, like Geralt's pressing against him, desperate to devour him.

Geralt hears an even clearer moan and realizes it's his own-- he's relentlessly pumping his cock to the point of pain, because this is all he deserves, less than this, alone in the mud, the filthy thing he's doing, he's _been_ doing, listening to his friend--

" _Fuck, fuck-- please-- harder--"_

Geralt hisses, but his self-loathing only propels him on. He knows Jaskier's close, he's heard him like this dozens of times by now-- he knows exactly what he sounds like when he's about to--

" _Geralt--"_

Geralt's eyes go wide and he comes, shouting into the dark. He breathes hard through his orgasm, hard as though he's just swum a mile, taken out a dozen drowners and run to catch Roach at a gallop. Great, gulping breaths, like he's trying to take in a new life, a different life, someone else's.

He knows it was barely a whisper the alderman couldn't hear; a confession not meant for him. But now that he knows... he knows he can't be here tomorrow.

He can already picture Jaskier's face twisting with confusion. 

He'll leave a note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started as a 5x1 of 5 times Geralt hears Jaskier orgasm and goes and 1 time when he comes, and it turned into.....this ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> follow me for nonsense on tumblr: [@witchertrashbag](https://witchertrashbag.tumblr.com)


	2. draw you into my flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Suddenly Geralt could smell him, the scent of the air thick with lust, and a spark deep inside him lit up again. He turned-- their eyes met before he was ready for the confused joy in Jaskier's face, and something else, like a puzzle fitting together._  
>  And that-- Geralt didn't like that at all.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're gettin down y'all. No slow burns here.

Three years later, Jaskier is twenty-seven when Geralt runs into him again in a town by the sea, a sea filled with lots of things killing lots of humans. They've traveled for a few weeks at a time off and on since, and, well. Geralt has been in the area for weeks, trying to escape the bard's increasingly popular songs. 

They torture Geralt, the way they praise and valorize his supposedly good deeds. Each verse tears at him a little more, remembering the way the Jaskier whispered his name that night.

But he loves pain.

So he was doubly delighted to hear that clear, sweet voice in the tavern one night, singing his own songs. Delighted and anguished. Time had passed; Jaskier had probably found someone, a lovely human to care for. Geralt turned to the bar for an ale.

Suddenly Geralt could smell him, the scent of the air thick with lust, and a spark deep inside him lit up again. He turned-- their eyes met before he was ready for the confused joy in Jaskier's face, and something else, like a puzzle fitting together.

And _that_ \-- Geralt didn't like that at all.

He was careful this time. Very careful. He didn't say too much, or much of anything. He went about his hunts, and the bard travelled alongside him as they went from town to town along the coast. He couldn't help but notice the folk were... almost kind to him. The glances they gave him seemed excited, if a little scared. At night he'd listen as Jaskier sang and played and enchanted crowds. Geralt was careful to get his own lodging, careful to go just to the edge of earshot when Jaskier took a lover (desperate to hear him moan his name again, hating how desperate he was for that-- and yet it always came, that sinful, soft _Geralt)_. 

He was careful to keep him at a distance. So fucking _careful_.

But for every arms' length he put between them, Jaskier would close the distance again.

He'd mince about, pout, lounge with his doublet undone and sometimes completely off, exposing his beautiful, talented throat, tantalizing curls of hair soft at its base and promising more, lower. He'd flaunt his conquests, asking Geralt to protect him against disgruntled spouses and fathers and brothers and sometimes mothers. After a kill he'd insist on Geralt getting a bath, insist on helping him get the guts out of his hair, helping him bathe, rub oils into his naked body, pressing into his ass against a growing and unwelcome erection, and Geralt... Geralt, who had been so _careful_ , well. He found he couldn't say no, torturous as it was.

Maybe he liked the torture.

And then they went to the court at Cintra. Geralt had been shaken to the core, appalled by his own stupidity, setting him even more on edge.

Tonight they're further inland, and Geralt finally feels a little pocket of peace. He and Jaskier sit at another table in another tavern, Jaskier quietly humming and strumming and talking, just comfortable in one another's presence, so comfortable Geralt lets his eyes drift closed. Until:

"Tell me, Geralt. Would you say a Witcher's stamina gets in the way of other things? Other... _pleasures_?"

Geralt's eyes snap open and he finds a horrible, knowing smirk on Jaskier's face, and he realizes exactly how innocent he _isn't_ anymore.

"That depends," he replies.

"On what?"

Geralt is losing it. He needs to stop this immediately. He takes a deep breath. "Tonight I find my stamina is worn from the day's work. Goodnight." He stands, gathering his swords.

"Oh."

He notices with some delight the disappointment that coats Jaskier's face. Followed by a look that makes him very nervous-- a knowing, predatory look.

"I suppose I can find someone else in here to keep me company."

Geralt stops and grits his teeth. Jaskier waits for his reply, so he starts walking away.

"Hope you get some _rest_ , Geralt!"

_Fuck_. He knows. Geralt doesn't know how, but somehow Jaskier _knows_ that whenever he's off with a lover, Geralt is anything but restful. He slowly climbs the steps, his mind racing with panic. He can't escape to the woods tonight, not until Jaskier is out of sight and... occupied. 

At the top on the landing, he looks down and sees Jaskier staring up at him, already sitting in the (frankly, thick) stable boy's lap. Jaskier gives him a truly evil look as he traces a finger around the stable boy's ear and plays with his hair.

Then he licks his lips and, not taking his eyes from Geralt's, quietly whispers into the stable boy's ear: "I want _you_ tonight."

Geralt shivers but turns and walks into his room, shutting the door harshly behind him.

"You're so beautiful," he hears Jaskier whisper into the young man's ear downstairs. "So strong. Imagine how you'll look, spread for me, hmm?"

Geralt groans softly and sinks to the floor.

"I want to take my time with you. Make you wait."

Geralt _will not act on this._

"Make you _beg_."

_Fuck_.

Geralt hears the stable boy's reply, hears the footsteps up the stairs, and suddenly--

He stands and opens his door, eyes wild, and sees Jaskier and the (frankly, terrified) stable boy in the hallway.

"In here. _Now_ ," he growls at Jaskier, enjoying the way his eyes flash as Geralt grabs him by his doublet, pulls him in the room, and shuts the door.

"Now, Geralt, that was very rude," Jaskier tells him, a dangerous lilt in his voice. "Whatever will dear Walder out there think?"

"His name is Wade. And I don't particularly care."

"Well, now, that is interesting," says Jaskier, a smirk growing upon his lips. "And why's that? Geralt?" Geralt's name is like thick mead on those mischievous lips; his head swims with the sound of it. Jaskier cocks a hip to one side, displaying the length of his body. Geralt licks his lips unconsciously but can't bring himself to say anything.

Jaskier quietly, slowly walks to him, backing him into the door, and draws his palm up against his cheek.

"It's okay," he says, looking at him darkly. "I know what you want. I want it, too."

Geralt takes a sharp breath through his nose. He _will not_ \--

Geralt kisses him. Hard. And suddenly he can't remember exactly why he should do anything _but_ this.

Jaskier expertly tilts his head and deepens the kiss, pressing his body against Geralt's and moaning into him. Geralt feels like he's crackling and coursing with electricity everywhere he can feel Jaskier, _actually feel him_ against his clothed skin. 

Their kisses are desperate, hungry, fevered, possessive. Geralt runs his hands across Jaskier's broad shoulders and down his back, drinking him in, and finds Jaskier moaning and pressing and pushing him where he wants him, bossy and insistent as he maps Geralt's chest and lower, down, down, until his finger edges around the rim of Geralt's trousers. Geralt gasps into his mouth. Jaskier breaks the kiss and looks at Geralt suggestively if a bit breathless, as though daring him with the question.

They are wearing too many clothes.

Geralt keeps kissing Jaskier, gently leading them toward the bed. In one fluid motion, Geralt divests himself of his shirt, stepping out of his boots as he does so. He's pleased to find Jaskier a little stunned, staring at him like he hasn't eaten in days. Geralt smirks as he loosens the laces on his trousers, peeling them down and pushing Jaskier back and onto the bed. He feels a rush as he bares his half-hard cock to the night air.

" _Oh_." 

Geralt smiles proudly as his eyes flick to Jaskier's lips, and he kisses him again. He tears Jaskier's doublet off, then paws at the linen beneath it, dragging it away and revealing Jaskier's thickly hairy torso.

"Geralt, darling, you're-- wow. Of course I've seen you before, but... not like this--" Geralt flushes with the praise, kissing down that torso, reveling in the wicked little moans he's drawing out of Jaskier-- _he_ is, this time, nobody else-- as he flicks his tongue over a nipple. A filthy gasp as he palms Jaskier's cock through his trousers.

"So hard already," he murmurs approvingly.

"Fuck," is all Jaskier can say. Geralt kisses him again, tasting him, hungry for him. "Geralt, really-- I must-- I must get you into my mouth-- _immediately._ "

Geralt finds himself sitting at the edge of the bed as Jaskier goes to his knees before him, his eyes wide as saucers, licking his lips.

_Fuck._ Geralt looks down at Jaskier, his young friend-- _maybe this isn't such a good ide--_

But Jaskier _breathes_ over the tip of his cock, then grabs the base as he flicks his tongue over the slit, and Geralt can't think about anything except the way it feels as Jaskier draws his tongue around the head and takes his cock into his mouth, sucking hard. The way he looks as he does it. His lips stretched around him, the faint sweat beginning to bead on his brow, his deliciously flushed cheeks, and the attentive, solemn, filthy look in his eyes. 

"What do they teach at Oxenfurt these days?" Geralt manages to pant out, his ragged voice betraying him.

Jaskier takes his length down in response, holding him there, his nose pressed to the hair at the base of his cock. He releases Geralt with a messy slurp, a satisfied smile on his face, leaving Geralt agog.  He's incredible, slowly teasing and drawing out Geralt's pleasure until he's panting and desperate and sitting on his hands to keep from fucking Jaskier's mouth. 

Then Jaskier sits back on his heels with a devilish grin, examining the fruits of his labor in Geralt's straining cock. And does it all again, pushing him to the edge and pulling him back. Geralt, the Witcher, is _breathless_ with desire.

" _Fuck_ ," says Geralt appreciatively. "Fuck you."

"Would you like to?"

Geralt's stomach does a flip. He knows his eyes must be so dark. He tries to be casual, leaning back on his elbows. He watches an evil grin spread across Jaskier's mouth as he stands, turns to remove his boots, keeps a little vial from his pocket, and very slowly lets his trousers fall, letting Geralt's eyes take in his long, lovely back, his skinny ass.

Then Jaskier steps toward him, straddling his hips, pressing their cocks together, and breathes into his ear.

"So was that a yes, or...?"

"Yes," Geralt breathes. "Fuck."

"Very eloquent," Jaskier says impishly, nuzzling into Geralt's neck and grinding his hips against him. Geralt presses back against him and notes how flushed Jaskier looks, how he loses himself in this base, simple rutting. Geralt drags his teeth along Jaskier's neck, just the way he's imagined for years, and relishes the whining moan Jaskier gives him in response.

"Pretty eloquent yourself right now," Geralt tells him with a grin. 

" _Fuck_ ," Jaskier sighs as Geralt grabs his ass, groping it hard as Jaskier moves against him. He presses a thick finger between the cheeks, brushing lightly against soft skin. Jaskier hisses.

"Get me that oil," Geralt asks him, plainly. Jaskier immediately obeys. 

"You know what you're doing? You've... er... done this before?"

"When you've lived as long as I have..."

Geralt spreads some lube over his fingers single handedly and tosses the stoppered bottle to the side. He holds Jaskier's thigh firmly with one thick arm, then looks into Jaskier's eyes as he slowly presses a finger inside of him.

Jaskier looks stunning. His dark hair is sweaty and mussed over his forehead. His cheeks hold the most delicious flush. His brow is furrowed, eyes closed, as he concentrates on release, on surrender, to Geralt. The thought of it is almost overwhelming.

Geralt grabs Jaskier's hip and presses him back and onto his finger, taking pressure away from both of their cocks. Jaskier lets out a whine at the loss.

"I don't want you coming right here. Not yet."

Jaskier whimpers.

Geralt almost loses it right there, but takes a deep breath and stills himself as he slowly works Jaskier open. Adding a finger, listening to Jaskier's breath, waiting. He curls a finger, exploring, seeking--

Jaskier moans loudly into the room.

"Hmm." Geralt is grinning at the sight of Jaskier coming undone like this, and him doing the undoing and--

Jaskier squirms back on his fingers and wraps his hand around Geralt's cock. Geralt gasps at the feeling of the bard's calloused fingers running over the tip. He's so overstimulated, the heat of it almost hurts, but he leans into the feeling, desperate for--

" _More,_ " Jaskier begs, fucking himself in earnest against Geralt's fingers, groaning as Geralt acquiesces. " _Please, please Geralt-- I'm ready_ \--"

Geralt finds those blue eyes boring into him as Jaskier grips his cock.

" _Oh, please, I need you, I need you_ \--"

Geralt grunts and removes his hand, wiping it quickly along his thigh. He gently grasps Jaskier's hips. Jaskier shifts his weight to his knees to raise himself up and let Geralt position him over his cock.

Jaskier looks right at him as he slowly, slowly brings himself down onto Geralt's dick. He licks his lips in concentration, his eyes wild and determined to see every expression that crosses Geralt's face.

"Slow, slow--" Geralt eases him.

"No--" Jaskier says, and leans down to bite his ear, hard. Geralt chokes out a moan, surprised at the move, and realizes he shouldn't be. He's been listening, after all.

Geralt groans loudly as Jaskier finally takes all of him in, his face triumphant.

"I've wanted to do that for a long time," Jaskier confesses, his gaze still piercing. "Ages."

"Hmm," Geralt says, and Jaskier starts rolling his hips, slowly fucking himself on Geralt. " _Fuckkkkkkkkk._ "

"I thought you hated me. And then I realized... you were always so-- _angry--_ "

Jaskier fucks himself down, hard, and Geralt moans helplessly.

"--the morning after I took a lover. And then I realized why."

Jaskier builds a rhythm; Geralt can feel his orgasm rising again; he grips Jaskier's hips more tightly-- they'll probably bruise, but he--

Jaskier stops. It almost knocks the wind out of Geralt, but he lets him go, looking at him, searching. Afraid this is too much. That he's hurting him.

Jaskier leans in close, brushing his lips against Geralt's ear, and says:

“I realized you could hear it all." He rolls his hips into Geralt. 

Geralt moans from the sensation but mostly the humiliation. "I didn't want--"

"But you didn't stop listening, did you?"

" _No_ ," Geralt confesses, breathless.

"Was it the sounds my lovers made? Wondering what it felt like? The sounds I made?"

Jaskier rides him hard, building up the friction. Geralt looks up at him, this gorgeous man, streaked with sweat and high on the power of owning him-- he truly owns him; Geralt is helpless against this otherwise helpless human. Geralt shifts their angle slightly, devotedly, thrusting up and making sure to hit Jaskier just exactly right.

He can see Jaskier lose himself a little to the sensation, and a moan rumbles through him. Jaskier's breath becomes more hitched, his panting more choked, and Geralt has heard it so many times he knows exactly what it means.

"It was my name," Geralt tells him. "When you said--"

Jaskier's blue eyes go wide. "Geralt..."

He watches something shift in those blue eyes, something that crackles and courses deep within him, and then Jaskier's gaze is heavy on him, and he grunts and shifts and:

"-- _fuck_ , Geralt, you're so good, _you're so good_ , _Geralt_ \--" Jaskier moans, loudly, coming hard between them, his ass clenching, saying Geralt's name over and over again, and at the sight of it Geralt is truly lost, a guttural sound tearing out of him as he thrusts into Jaskier, who rides out his orgasm.

When they can breathe again, he tilts Jaskier into his chest, lowering them both back onto the bed, then slowly starts to pull out.

" _No_ ," Jaskier says softly.

" _Hmm_." So Geralt stays, resting as Jaskier's fingers trail over him softly, feeling the absolute bliss of being touched in this quiet, gentle way. His eyes close. He breathes in deeply, slowly filling his lungs, utterly satisfied.

He feels Jaskier pull off of him, then a soft kiss on his forehead as he drifts to sleep.

Geralt wakes in the morning and finds Jaskier curled to his side beside him, humming in his sleep the way he often does.

Geralt’s eyes trail over Jaskier’s prone body with such tenderness; his hand shifts to his torso where he finds Jaskier’s cum dried there, and the events of the previous night flash over in his mind.

In this quiet moment, he belongs to Jaskier. With Jaskier. For one moment, he allows himself to sit in this bliss, remembering the soft way Jaskier’s eyes fluttered right before he came, the things he said to Geralt, breathed roughly into his ear. The sounds he made, that _Geralt_ coaxed from his long, broad body.

Geralt practically tingles from this peace, as though he’s sunk into a hot bath of it, coiling around him, warming him wholly. He can’t help but reach out and softly stroke Jaskier’s side.

Then Jaskier inhales as he rolls toward Geralt, mouth sleepy as he wakes, and says:

“Mmmmm, what'cha thinkin' about?”

The peace Geralt felt isn’t water at all— it’s oil, and it’s on fucking fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the mortifying ordeal of being known, babeyyyyyyyyyyy
> 
> find me [on tumblr](https://witchertrashbag.tumblr.com/) for more foolishness


	3. when there's nothing left to burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Geralt can tell when a sparring partner is holding back on him. And Jaskier has been holding something back, something he can’t quite put his finger on._
> 
> Jaskier knows Geralt's tell. Geralt is so fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note to say: this is all written in Geralt POV, and he's an idiot, so it's gonna take him some time to work things out, but he has a lot of misconceptions in this chapter about a lot of things that will be challenged. You know! Like a story!
> 
> This also came out wayyyyyy angstier, whoops!

Six years pass. Jaskier is thirty-four when Geralt almost kills him in Rinde, and Geralt has felt like he's been burning for all six of those years. 

They’ve traveled together, on-and-off: shared beds, bedrolls, and often: their hands grope towards one another in the dark, tingling and stroking and finding tender places to elicit soft sounds, to grasp roughly, to please… 

He’s fucked Jaskier. Quite a bit. And he thought it was good. Really good. For Jaskier; for both of them. He’s not really sure what it means. But he something in him has become so accustomed to the bard, to the thrumming warm energy of him, the scent of him, the way he looks at Geralt. And more than anything, he's desperate not to lose that.

They also fuck other people, usually when they’re separated, but occasionally when traveling together.

(Once, memorably, at the same time, at the same brothel, and all Geralt could hear was Jaskier. His harlot made some _very_ easy coin that night.)

Geralt can tell when a sparring partner is holding back on him. And Jaskier has been holding something back, something he can’t quite put his finger on.  He's been fixated on whatever it is, until he’s concluded it must be, _of course_ it’s a deficiency of his own. Jaskier deserves to love and be loved by another human, one of his own kind. Someone who can really love him back.

And so many things have happened, Geralt has _done_ so many things, uttered so many things he can’t take back, to Duny and now to the djinn, it’s just better for Geralt to burn on his own, no need to light anyone else on fire. 

But he hasn't been able to leave.

"So are we gonna talk about this or what?" asks Jaskier, sitting beside him, startling him out of his own head.

Geralt deftly masks his panic with a:

"Hmm." 

He then realizes he's sat beside a fire Jaskier has made, in their fully constructed camp, Roach grazing peacefully nearby, and he realizes he has no idea how that happened.

"You saved my life.”

"I was the one who endangered it," Geralt says, frowning, withdrawing. He suddenly feels Jaskier's hand gently but firmly clutch his square jaw.

"Somebody forgot my first wish for the djinn involved apoplexy," says Jaskier, teasing gently, and Geralt feels _fluttery_ inside, and it's uncomfortable, and--

Jaskier's gentle smile flickers. "I don't want you to feel bad about what happened. You saved my life. And you risked your own."

“It’s my job," he says, turning away, trying to get a clear deep breath of the night air instead of this coiling heat beside him, because--

"Geralt," Jaskier says, and how did he suddenly get so close? The scent of him, the sound of him is almost overwhelming. Geralt blinks, keeping control.

Until Jaskier kisses him.

He finds himself making the tiniest whimpering noise into that kiss, it so catches him off guard, even after six years. Jaskier's hands are firm and sure against his scalp. Jaskier softly deepens the kiss, and Geralt finds himself growling into it--

_Fuck._

He pulls away.

"I'm sorry."

"For stopping? You'd better apologize," says Jaskier, leaning in again. "Or is this about…? Okay while you have years of peeping experience on me I'll admit this was actually my first-- fine, the _third_ , but _only_ the third time, and, well you both looked very... _alive_ , and it's just that I haven't been able to stop thinking about it."

"About...?"

"You and the unnervingly gorgeous mage. Seeing you, ah... _together._ "

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Geralt hadn't planned for it to even happen at all, let alone be _seen_. His burning self-loathing grows stronger with the memory, with the knowledge he could curl up like a cat beside the furnace of Yennefer of Vengerberg, a woman like a wildfire, and live in that loathing forever, if she'd let him. After what he’s done to her, binding them together like he did, she may well have to.

He finds Jaskier regarding him quietly, just waiting. Geralt swallows hard.

"I didn't mean, I didn't want you to see--"

"You think I'm jealous?" Jaskier says with another teasing smile, _familiar_ , and it both sates Geralt and stokes at him. "Then you forget my _second_ wish. We've always seen--"

"No--" Geralt starts, unsure how to even begin to phrase this, but he tries: ”I don't want you to feel you need to repay me in some way. I know you haven’t been… _fully satisfied_ with me.”

"Then you suppose wrong," says Jaskier, teasing his throat with his nimble fingers, again a teasing combination of relief and tension. 

"Well..." Jaskier continues, pausing, and suddenly, it has Geralt's stomach twisting with _panic_.

"Well _what?_ It wasn't--? Hmm.“ Geralt says, standing, and he should probably just pack his things right now. 

Roach whinnies at him.

"Geralt... if you aren’t interested in this, just say so and I'll never bring it up again," says Jaskier, standing and walking slowly towards the Witcher as though he's a foal he's trying not to spook.

"But if you want..." he continues, just a breath away from Geralt now, nearly his height and yet somehow more terrifying than anything in the forest.

" _Want_...?"

"More," Jaskier says, and he kisses his neck.

“More what?”

Jaskier inhales and pauses, shifting back the tiniest bit, and Geralt _knows_ , he _knows now_ that whatever this is, whatever he has with Jaskier, of course it’s not enough. Of course he can’t make him truly happy.

“I want to fuck you.”

Geralt freezes.

"Is that something you'd like?" Jaskier asks quietly, casually, though Geralt can hear his heart racing.

Geralt has never considered this, somehow. 

He’s heard Jaskier, dozens of times with dozens of men. He’s— he himself has taken Jaskier many times. When he's thought about it, he assumed Jaskier wanted him because he wanted to be dominated, overpowered, roughed up a little by something a little less than human, and he had found himself powerless to resist, willing to do anything Jaskier wanted, anything at all, for those moments in his arms when he feels...

He’s never once considered Jaskier might want to dominate him. To make him submit to him. To _take_ him, _possess_ him.

The thought is dizzying, and Geralt is alarmed to find himself already growing hard, and he hears his voice saying:

“ _Yeah-- yes.”_

"You're sure?" Jaskier asks with a smile, and kisses him.  Geralt gives in so easily, brushing his hand along Jaskier's jaw, greedily pressing into his lips into the kiss, practically melting as the bard leans his body into his, humming into him.

They kiss sloppily, messily, Jaskier's fingers roaming his body hungrily. Geralt feels so _wanted_ \-- he can feel Jaskier's cock hardening rapidly against his hip and finds himself rolling into it, and Jaskier lets out the most wicked little moan, so he can't stop.

"Let me see you," Jaskier breathes, unbuttoning Geralt's dark tunic. "How-- why the fuck does this thing have so many buttons?"

Geralt quickly slips it over his head and off, revealing his scarred torso, and presses eagerly into Jaskier once more, desperate for his touch. 

Geralt has no idea how he's gotten this desperate for him, and then remembers, he's always been. He just knows he has to keep getting Jaskier to make those sounds.

“Mmm very greedy are we?” Jaskier says, cheeky, but something about the glint in his eye sends shivers down Geralt’s spine. And he can see Jaskier notice.  He feels Jaskier's thumb brushing toward his lips and slips it between them, smirking. Jaskier's eyes go even darker in the firelight.

"Oh. Right then," he says, and Geralt quickly takes to unbuttoning his trousers, suddenly desperate to have them off, desperate to feel more of Jaskier, and desperate to stop any more talking. He licks and sucks against Jaskier's thumb as he does, relishing in how flustered the bard looks, the scent of his arousal thick and strong, how _he's_ doing that, and he needs to do more.

He releases Jaskier's thumb to bend and pull off his trousers and braies, then stays on his knees, looking up at Jaskier, letting his mouth fall open wantonly.

"Can I...?" he asks, bringing his open mouth to the bulge in Jaskier's silk trousers. His lips feel his cock throb through the thin fabric, and he finds himself saying, " _Please?_ "

"You sure? You've never..." Jaskier hesitates as he unbuttons the trousers, mind churning as though he's working on some lyrics, or a riddle, but he takes his hardening cock out. Geralt laps at him eagerly, gently grabbing his balls and licking straight up the base to tease around the tip the way he knows Jaskier likes. He looks up at Jaskier hungrily before taking his entire length in his mouth.

"Oh _gosh._ "

It feels... intense. Thick and full and he can barely breathe through his nose nestled deep in Jaskier's thick hair, but he's determined to do this, to show Jaskier just how much he wants this, wants him. He's gagging on him and feels Jaskier's hands on his head, gently tugging him back, and bobs away before taking him down again, lost in the aroused musk of Jaskier, the delicious wicked little moans and gasps he's making. And he tries to block it out as he gags and sucks and takes his cock down his throat, but it's so overwhelming, he finds himself pouring everything he feels into this. He needs Jaskier to feel wanted, as wanted as he makes him feel. He needs him to feel safe, protected--. His vision blurs slightly and he feels his erection throb, can feel the blood thrumming through his body.

Jaskier steps away.

Suddenly the cold night air fills his lungs and he's clear and the pooling thing at the pit of his stomach turns. He looks up, expecting to find revulsion.

Jaskier kneels down next to him, a gentle hand on his shoulder, and hands him a skin of water.

"Hey. Here," he says, pressing the mouth to Geralt's lips, tilting it so Geralt feels the cool liquid running down his throat. He swallows and sits back on his heels, finally bringing his gaze up to Jaskier's.

"Sorry. If that was--"

"That was great. Really-- I don't think anyone has ever been able to do that before, actually-- but." Jaskier lets out a very deep breath. "It's not exactly what I had in mind."

"Oh," says Geralt, shifting, suddenly very aware of how absolutely naked he is in this forest clearing. "I--"

"Let me show you," says Jaskier, a soft smile on his face, a smile Geralt would follow anywhere.

So he does. To their bedrolls.

Geralt sits awkwardly and then turns to his hands and knees until he finds Jaskier's hand on his hip, gently nudging him to sit. He turns and suddenly finds his lips meet Jaskier's in a soft kiss and he's helpless, whimpering into him, bringing his hand up to brush against Jaskier's neck. When they part, Jaskier looks at him _so softly_ he could break.

"Have you done this before?" Jaskier asks plainly, without a trace of judgement.

"Yeah," he says, because he has, quite a lot, when he was much younger and thought the world was a much different place.

"It wouldn't be my first deflowering," Jaskier says with an infuriating grin that somehow sets him at ease. At ease enough to frown at him disapprovingly, until Jaskier kisses him again, long and deep, moaning softly into him. 

Geralt feels like his world has tilted, like everything's askew, before he realizes he is actually being gently tilted back onto the bedroll, softly, like some kind of fair maiden. He feels Jaskier wriggle above him, locking their hips together, grinding his cock against him, and suddenly feels much less maidenly. 

The coursing lightning feeling crackles deep and shoots up-- Geralt urges their hips together, thrusting against Jaskier, moaning wantonly into his mouth, his hands roaming over the bard's sturdy frame. He quickly peels off Jaskier's doublet and shirt as he's done dozens of times, trailing his fingers through the thick hair on his chest.

Jaskier sits back and lets Geralt gaze at him, taking him in. His soft skin, the pull and shudder of his muscles as he breathes. He looks strong like this, powerful, commanding, and Geralt suddenly finds himself very interested in being commanded.

"What are you going to do to me?" he whispers, delighted to see the surprised, hungry flash in Jaskier's eyes.

"I'm going to take you like this," Jaskier replies, bending to nip at Geralt's chest, his tongue flicking out to find a nipple. Geralt hisses, and Jaskier just trails lower. "So I can see exactly what you like," he says, running his teeth over Geralt's hipbone, leaving Geralt shuddering and gasping.

"And how can you see that?"

Jaskier looks at him like a cat with a canary in its mouth.

"You have a tell."

"No, I don't," Geralt counters, alarmed, hackles rising with panic.

"Yes, you do," Jaskier tells Geralt's cock, kissing it, then quirks an eyebrow up at him. "You do it when you cheat at gwent."

"I _never_ cheat at--" Geralt finds his sentence quite cut off as Jaskier takes his cock into his mouth, his eyes flicking up to Geralt's as he moans around it like it's the most delicious thing he's ever tasted. It's all Geralt can do to hold on, his hands fisting their bedroll as Jaskier begins to tease him. He starts to take him apart like he was born knowing how, like he's studied, taken an advanced course, and become the world's foremost Geralt Cock Scholar.

Geralt is absolutely lost in the soft wet pressure when he feels a slick finger circling his asshole. He shivers and feels his cock jerk in Jaskier's mouth. Jaskier hums, somehow praising him, and Geralt relaxes. He shifts his hips as Jaskier slowly presses his finger inside, and finds himself sighing with pleasure into the sensation, his head thrown back.

He finds Jaskier watching him hungrily; he hums in a somehow very condescending way, and a thrill shoots through Geralt; he suddenly moans and presses back against Jaskier's finger. Jaskier slips his mouth off his cock to ask:

"You like that?"

Geralt nods, his brow furrowed with concentration.

"You want more?"

" _Yes_ \--" Geralt breathes, and Jaskier dips back to suck him again, pressing a second finger in, teasing, stretching him--

Something deep and dormant within Geralt takes over. Something small and fragile and yet so so strong, a brazen vulnerability crackles to life as he bucks his hips back against Jaskier's fingers and whines, arching is back-- every part of him ablaze and desperate for more, and Jaskier is testing and teasing at that boundary, making him wait, to see just how much he can take.

Jaskier comes up for air, easing his way up and beside Geralt. 

"Good, good..." he tells him, moving his fingers in and out of Geralt lazily as he watches him squirm and pant under his touch. "Fuck, you look so hot like this, you want this, hmm?"

" _Jaskier-- I need--_ "

"Not yet. But you're being very good," he says with a smirk. "And I love to reward good behavior," he breathes in his ear. Geralt's cock twitches and he lets out another low whine, snapping back against Jaskier's fingers.

His eyes find Jaskier's.

" _Please_ ," he says, "please, Jask--"

"Well, if you're not trying to hurt yourself..."

Geralt doesn't remember the last time he felt like this. It's like being mid-battle, every cell of his body awake and screaming together, and right now, they're screaming for:

"I'm not-- I need-- I need to feel your cock, fuck-- please, _please--"_

Within seconds Jaskier's fingers are out of him, leaving Geralt empty and groaning, until he comes to rest between his legs. Geralt braces himself, expecting the rough thrust of a thick cock inside him, the sudden burning pain of being fucked, fast and deep, and instead looks up to find Jaskier looking at him softly, tenderly. Geralt's legs are splayed, his cock is hard against his torso; Jaskier can see every foul and secret part of him, and yet is looking at him _like that._

Geralt can hardly breathe.

Jaskier meets his gaze as he slowly lines himself up and presses into him. Geralt's tense legs are met with soothing touches, gentle kisses, and he's not sure how much of this he can take, if he's strong enough to take it.

His face is wet as Jaskier cups his palm against his cheek, kissing him gently, and tells him:

"That's good, that's enough--"

"No--" Geralt chokes out. "Don't stop. Please."

Jaskier nods and kisses him softly, and slowly, slowly presses all the way into him. 

" _Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck_. You okay?"

Geralt nods, his eyes wide as Jaskier kisses him sweetly, a cheeky grin on his face. He knows why when Jaskier begins to slowly thrust and shift his angle until Geralt lets out a soft, broken moan.

Jaskier fucks into him reverentially, like he's precious, as though every thrust is a prayer, and Geralt doesn't have to guess what he means because with every thrust, Jaskier tells him:

"You're so gorgeous, so gorgeous like this beneath me."

and

"Taking me so well, _fuck_ \--"

and

"So good, you're so good, Geralt, you feel like heaven."

and

"Let me take care of you, that's it."

and

" _Fuck_ , you feel so wonderful, I knew you had a lovely bottom but _fuuuuuck_."

And Geralt should laugh; it should all make him laugh, but instead it reaches deep inside him and pins him down, he can't escape it, and he doesn't think he wants to even if he could.

He's already cum twice, soft and easy, relaxing him deeper, the heat crackling and building within him, when he reaches up to touch Jaskier's face.

He says nothing; he just holds his gaze as Jaskier thrusts. Geralt can tell he's pacing himself, trying to last, trying to make it good for him, so he tells him:

"Don't hold back."

He brushes his hand down to Jaskier's shoulder and quickly tips them around until he's seated on Jaskier's cock, drawing a gasp from the bard. Jaskier looks up at him, agog, astonished, which puts a smirk on Geralt's face until he begins to ride him. 

The only thing he can hear in the world, as usual, is Jaskier. His racing heartbeat. The soft little sounds and whimpers and _moans_ he makes as Geralt works him back up to the brink.

The sensation of his cock, thick and raw and filling Geralt, works him to the edge of his own third orgasm, but he's determined to please Jaskier, to hear him, smell him, sense as much of him as he can, to make him feel--

The air is thick with their musk and his cock is bouncing and twitching on Jaskier's stomach when he hears a high whine and deep moan. Jaskier grips his hips and Geralt lets himself be moved where he wants him, fucked as he wants him, watching Jaskier all the while, relishing every second of this.

"Touch yourself," Jaskier orders. "I want to watch how you do it, when you're watching me; I want you to cum on me."

Geralt draws in a ragged breath; the words alone nearly tip him over the edge.

"Say it. Say you'll do it."

" _Yes_."

"What are you gonna do?"

" _Fuck, Jaskier, I'm about to--"_

It only takes a few quick strokes before his release hits Jaskier's chest, Jaskier's hands hard on his hips as he fucks him.

"Good. Very good."

He throws his head back, flushed and fucked-out, letting his mouth hang open, then looks down at Jaskier, at his hair damp from exertion, his flushed face. Jaskier meets his steady gaze, watching him.

He feels Jaskier's cock tense within him as he cums. He rides him hard through his orgasm, his mouth open and moaning, feeling raw and alive, until he feels Jaskier hiss and tense beneath him and slips off. Jaskier immediately draws him into his arms, kissing him, and suddenly it's too much-- the emptiness-- and he finds he's shuddering in Jaskier's arms.

Jaskier pulls a blanket close around them, gently stroking his back as Geralt begins to sob. Jaskier holds him there until his sobs are dry. He's dazed, disoriented, and feels the weight of Jaskier's legs behind him, hears him clean himself off and then slip in behind him to hold him close. As Geralt stills, he lets Jaskier gently roll him to his back, feels his warm, comforting weight press down on him, his face drawn and worried.

Geralt can't stand it; he beams at him, drawing him in for a deep kiss. When Jaskier pulls away, he smiles softly, hoping Jaskier understands.

As they settle together, Jaskier curling in behind Geralt under the stars. He thinks he does.

Geralt wakes with a warm wetness on his shoulder and turns to find it's Jaskier's drool, his mouth slightly open. His sleeping face is very soft and very close, his breath sweet and kind and so _human_. 

Something cold turns in Geralt. Jaskier is throwing his life away with him. He knows he has to leave. Leave this, leave him.

And somehow, he still can't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is very bad at talking about things that aren't monster facts y'all.
> 
> Like really bad.


	4. you have to set yourself on fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jaskier has his own shame wank.
> 
> This is very sad I'm sorry.

Jaskier is forty years old when he asks Geralt to go to the coast with him. 

And he's pretty sure Geralt has no idea. _Knows_ that the last twenty-two years of their lives must feel like a few months to someone pushing a hundred. In some ways-- a lot of ways-- it's felt like that to him, too, marked out in tiny advances, both filthy and sweet. Their first kiss. The first time he made Geralt cum without touching him. Every single time he's made Geralt laugh. The first time Geralt fell asleep in his arms, letting Jaskier take his weight. 

And as much as he'd like to be, Jaskier knows he's not a steadfast lover. His passion comes in jolts and waves, becoming almost overbearing when they're together, then suddenly gone, distracted, and focused elsewhere. He gets ahead of himself so easily, he thinks, because he's still not sure Geralt really wants his love at all. He certainly wants the things they do together. 

And yet he can't help but know, very deeply, that Geralt _does_ want more. A partner. A kind of family, beyond his brothers. Something stable. Reliable. And as Geralt has slept in his arms, the last few years, even the exhausted happiness he sees on his face has become troubled. Geralt may be almost a hundred, but these last years have taken their toll.

So it's the scariest thing he's ever done, approaching that literal cliff's edge with the witcher. He's practiced what he would say in his mind for weeks, because the top of a mountain while seeking a dragon is the _perfect time_ to suggest a new adventure together. And yet, when the time comes, his treacherous brain goes completely blank. And suddenly all there is is Geralt, his soft, tired warmth. Jaskier the famous poet does his best, but the words stutter out like chunks of his heart he's surrendering.

And as usual, he receives nothing back.

But he knows nothing means _thinking_. Means needing more time to process. Means _maybe._ A true maybe, a thing rarer than golden dragons.

He gets ahead of himself so easily, he thinks, as he sits outside Yennefer's tent, where Geralt has gone for the night.

Yennefer could easily have put some kind of sound-dampening spell on the thing, but it seems she likes an audience, because Jaskier can hear _everything._

Twenty-two years and he's never heard Geralt with another lover when he wasn't also present. Even that one time, when they both went to the same brothel, he realizes he couldn't hear a peep from Geralt's room. Perhaps he drowned all the sound out on his own, or worse: wasn't even listening.

He can hear Yennefer's rough moans and Geralt's quiet breaths. Pictures their beautiful bodies arched and pressing together, and suddenly something is coiling low and hot within him. Familiar arousal and something deeper and far more vast, something he keeps at arm's length at all times.

He finds himself diving into it.

All he can hear is the two of them. Grunts and moans and the wet slap of fucking, and he thinks, fuck it, and takes himself in hand. It's dry and rough and a little painful, but that just matches whatever's inside.

A sudden soft laugh from Geralt and something rises like bile in his throat and quickly turns, and he finds he's choking out a sob. And he comes back to himself on this mountaintop, hunched over, his eyes screwed tightly shut, and thinks of all the filthiest things he can, the images that never fail to bring him off, some of Geralt, his face soft and his eyes wide as he's fucking him. Some of things they've never done: Geralt tied up and begging him. Some of things he wouldn't even want to do. And suddenly violent, violet eyes staring at him, as though she can sense what he's doing out here, and she's judging him, daring him to do it.

Jaskier cums, and it's short and deeply unsatisfying.

He awkwardly fishes for spare shirt to clean himself off and sort himself out, then water to clean the shirt, and then he finds himself sitting there, scrubbing his cum off his own shirt and knows, like a bolt of lightning, that this is the last thing he wants for himself.

But what does he want for himself?

The question rings in his mind. _Geralt_. Yes-- at the coast. It would be good for Geralt to get away. Would it be good for him? Would that take care of _him_?

Jaskier has no idea. He pictures a year in the cottage in his mind. He rearranges it into a small fishing village, the smell the salty air and briny death of the ocean everywhere. The kind-faced, simple people he imagines live there, and the small intrigues that make up their lives. 

He realizes, with sudden clarity, that inside, he is screaming. And he has no idea what that's about, actually.

Later, when Geralt's shouts at him start to match, Jaskier finds his feet still seem to give a fuck about him because they're carefully taking him away, off this godsforsaken, not-romantic-in-the-slightest mountain, with just his lute and a bundle of whatever of his he could carry off Roach.

That includes the screaming still howling inside him. So Jaskier decides to figure out what his life looks like without Geralt. The clarity of it puts the merest wiggle back in his walk, and even if it's really fucking angry right now, it's a promise that he will be himself again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I wish I could write something more joyful, but I can't right now.
> 
> A little head's up: this fic *is* going to an OT3 place in the next chapter, and Jaskier will discover his knowledge of Yen is intensely biased. Next chapter is back to Geralt POV, though, and then they will all end up very happily together with some lovely kink.
> 
> If you're hardcore Geraskier Only, I'll make clear which chapters have Yen in them so you could not read them, I guess?


	5. of longing, and heartache, and lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old habits die hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very much inspired by [@daryshkart](https://daryshkart.tumblr.com/)'s [incredible older](https://daryshkart.tumblr.com/post/615319199754092544/ive-drawn-older-jaskier-a-lot-cant-help-it-i) [Jaskier art](https://daryshkart.tumblr.com/post/190932290034/i-love-immortal-jaskier-concept-but-i-raise-you).

Geralt has no idea how old Jaskier is now, he realizes, as he nudges Roach along the long stone bridge into Oxenfurt.

Time passes oddly. In fits and spurts, winters beginning like eons then over in a blink. Days inside that feel like lifetimes.

A week ago Geralt was tracking down a rumor, following the steps of a hunter when he realized he was just on the outskirts of Blaviken. He froze in his steps at the sound of a weathered old voice croaking in his direction and turned to find it was Marilka, the alderman’s daughter. He could only tell from the flicker of recognition in her eye, the way her face softened. He spent the evening at her fireside, watching her family talk and eat around them, miraculously comfortable in his presence, even here, in Blaviken, where it all began.

“Sing the song! Toss a coin!” Marilka’s great-granddaughter demanded of him. Her eyes were wide and her hair the color of dried straw, reminding him all too much of the first time he saw Ciri. He smiled and assured them they did not want to hear him sing, but Marilka caught his expression.

Later, as he drew a thick blanket around her in her chair, she asked, “What happened to him?” and he pretended not to hear. Suddenly he felt an iron grip around his wrist, and an equally steely look bearing down on him, just like when she was a child.

“Geralt. Don’t be a fuckhead.”

So here he is. He knows it’s been a few winters since he’s seen the bard, but he’s lost track of exactly how many. He hears of him often, of course. In the unmistakable turn of phrase in his songs copied and performed across the continent. In the way Yennefer changes the subject when he mentions Redanian Intelligence. Enough that he knows he did what he had to: he gave Jaskier his life back. 

Suddenly, remembering Marilka’s drawn face, heavy with lines and weathered from the sun, something akin to fear rises in him, and he finds himself urging Roach to walk just a little faster, as though they could outrun time.

It’s been a long time, he thinks, since he’s seen someone age. His wolf brothers seem to pass time collecting new scars. Ciri has grown older, become a young woman capable of caring for herself, although she always was, always had to be. Yennefer looks precisely the same as the day he first saw her; she changes in the way her presence feels around him. Her wildfire distilled into a single, blue-hot flame.

He’s heard Jaskier is teaching again, so he leaves Roach in a nice dry stable and pays extra for the good oats, locks his swords in with his saddlebags and heads for the university. It’s easy, he thinks, to slink and slip through the halls when you know where they lead. He finds the class listings for the right department and rushes up a tower, down a passage, and just manages to creep inside the right room amid a group of students.

Jaskier isn’t there.

Geralt surveys the assembled crowd shuffling into their seats in the raked auditorium while trying to remain nondescript, looking for music, instruments, the little notebooks he knows poets enjoy, when a door at the bottom flies open and a blaze of purple steps through.

Those familiar blue eyes somehow immediately find his, and Geralt is in a lightning storm again, as though he’s never left this man’s side. 

Just like lightning, the connection is broken.

Jaskier turns his attention to the class, immediately and very dramatically commanding the room. He’s grown older: the sides of his hair are streaked with grey, and he’s grown in a grey beard. He looks… actually very authoritative. Powerful. With a twinkle in his eye that keeps the entire room on the edge of their seats, just as he always has, at least, once--.

Geralt settles in his chair, giving the crackling sensation time to subside. But it doesn’t.

The scent of him is immediately comforting and nerve-wracking, but the _sound_ of him— Geralt didn’t realize how much he missed his voice.He sits through the Professor of Poetry’s entire, very technical lecture, actually, on rhyme, verse, and feet, and letting the subject of one’s story set the tone— or finding a contrast.

Geralt can’t help but wonder which one he is, but considers the contrast. A brooding sad sack given a jovial drinking song that draws people together. A relationship begun from a djinn’s wish that only grows more confusing to him spun as a tragic ballad. And the other one, the one he hasn’t heard all of—

Because even though Geralt finally stopped listening to Jaskier’s voice, especially in intimate situations when he should never’ve been listening, he’s never been able to escape his words. His songs echo everywhere. His stories about Geralt, his thoughts about Geralt, are everywhere. Even Lambert and Eskel tease him or pick out a mournful tune over the winters. Always without the calming, expressive, exasperating sound of his voice.

Geralt looks up and the students are beginning to disperse. A moment later, Jaskier whirls through the door at the bottom of the room, and Geralt is leaping from row to row to follow him with little bother from the students.

He dives through the door and finds Jaskier walking down a corridor.

“Jaskier!” he cries, and the professor turns, fixing Geralt with those blue eyes, with a spark of nervousness, or annoyance? in them.

“I’m sorry for arriving like this. I was hoping to see you,” he offers, giving Jaskier space.

For a moment, Jaskier considers him, hand on his hip cocked to the side, and Geralt remembers exactly how petulant the bard can be. He grins involuntarily, which he immediately he realizes is the wrong response, because:

“I’m afraid I can’t speak right now, I have a student waiting.”

Geralt takes a desperate step forward and says, “But you just finished your class.”

“Some students require more _attention_ than others,” he explains in a rush. “I have a responsibility here, Geralt, which you evidently know since you evidently know I’m a professor and when and where my classes are set,” he says, eyes narrowing.

Still, he’s not turning to leave, and Geralt counts that as a good sign. He’s not even sure what he’s hoping for now, he just—

“When can I see you? Just to talk. I have… there are things I’d like to say,” he says, immediately cursing himself because now he’s going to have to actually say things, but he marks the small smile in Jaskier’s face and his stomach tingles.

“I’ll find you at the Three Little Bells,” he says.

“Alright,” Geralt agrees.

“Now I really must go,” Jaskier says, not a lick of pretense or posture about him now, all flushed eagerness with a dash of hope, and Geralt is suddenly brimming and feels something like a smile quirk at his lips. He watches in a daze as Jaskier dashes off down the hall and turns a corner. 

He can’t recall the last time he smiled? It’s not really something he keeps track of: you can’t see your own face. He must’ve laughed at something Eskel said or Lambert did. A joke shared with Ciri the last time they met. He finds himself turning a corner and practically floating down the hall, almost running into another student, when he hears it, clear as a bell:

“My, my. What _have_ you been up to while I’ve been gone?”

“You were taking so long. I couldn’t wait.”

The sound of the voice— _that_ voice— in his ears, the soft, breathy, _arousal_ on those words. Geralt strides back the way he came in moments, turns a corner, and is hit with cold shock as he inhales the unmistakable scent of lilacs and gooseberries.

“I told you to be a good girl. Good girls wait patiently. Good girls don’t touch themselves.”

Jaskier’s voice is deep and rich and _patronizing_ and something about it _thrills_ Geralt, and he’s already moving closer to the door that’s concealing this exchange.

“What are you gonna do about it, _Professor_?”

Geralt can almost feel Jaskier’s arousal, mixed with the familiar scent of Yennefer’s wetness, and the combination of it batters his brain around until he has no other thoughts but to listen to what will happen next.

“If you’re going to be a brat, I’m going to have to punish you,” Jaskier says softly. 

“Pffft. With what?”

“You'll find my hand will suffice. Now, palms and elbows on the desk.”

A rustle of fabric, and then Geralt is so close he can hear what must be Jaskier’s hand running up Yennefer’s thigh to grip her ass. He definitely hears the sharp spank as Jaskier brings his hand down hard across her. He definitely hears Yennefer’s mock-whimper at the sensation.

“I’m just getting started, brat,” Jaskier mutters under his breath.

He listens as Jaskier spanks her again and again. He listens as Yennefer’s mock-whimpers turn to real whimpers turn to moans. He listens at the filthy slick sound of Jaskier fingering her between spanks:

“This is what you would’ve gotten if you’d waited. But you couldn’t be a good girl, you had to be a filthy slut, didn’t you?”

“ _Fuck—_ Y-yes, Professor.”

“I’ve never seen such a brat in all my life. So desperate. All that pain and you’re dripping. If you can’t be a good girl, are you ready to be a good little slut for me?”

“ _Yes, Professor, fuck_.”

“You’re gonna have to work for it if you want my cock. Say _please_.”

“ _Please, Professor. Please…_ I’ll be such a good girl.”

_“_ Oh, _fuck—“_

Geralt can hear his own heart pounding, hear Jaskier’s familiar soft gasps and moans and a recognizable slurping sound, smell the musk of sex from the two of them, and it’s just like it was before, like it’s always been, Geralt outside listening in, but it's so much worse, because he’s been so close, he is so close, and it’s still not enough, touching himself in a damp hallway is not enough, he needs more—

Geralt hears another shift and rustle, hears Yennefer choke out a soft moan and Jaskier murmur a sweet endearment to her, and then the sticky wet sounds of fucking, and—

He cracks open the door.

And finds: 

Jaskier’s trousers around his ankles, fucking deeply into Yennefer.

Her dress hiked up over her hips exposing her very red ass.

Her dress shrugged off her breasts so Jaskier can pinch a nipple hard as she bounces back onto his cock, moaning. 

The two of them turned and staring at him: a mixture of arousal and panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably most of you started reading me for the filth, and I'm pleased to say we're back in it. Get ready.


	6. the story is this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Ewwww. Seriously?”_
> 
> _“I’m telling the story.”_
> 
> _“You’re telling it wrong.”_
> 
> _“Darling, I never tell a story wrong. You’re speaking to the—“_
> 
> _“Yes, we know, bard.”_
> 
> _“We didn’t see each other in quite some time after that. Not until after—. Would you prefer I don’t…?”_
> 
> _“I don’t care.”_
> 
> _“Well why don’t you take over, if I’m telling it so wrong.”_
> 
> _“Perhaps I’d better.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we hand POV over and internal monologues become external monologues, from the only two people shameless enough to do so, to answer the question: how the fuck?
> 
> If you just aren't into Yennskier, please skip right to the end notes.

“It started not long after the dragon hunt, actually. I’d been performing in some shit pub whilst making my way back to Oxenfurt. I’d gone out for a breath of fresh air—“

“You went out to piss.”

“—and to _relieve_ myself when Yennefer slipped out of the shadows like a Cthonic goddess, startling the life out of me once again, and as I tucked my jewels— oh, don’t you laugh— away she told me, ‘I know what you did outside my tent.’ I tried to brush it off, to charm her, but before I knew what was happening, her lips were right at my ear, telling me: ‘You touched yourself listening to us.’ And that’s when I realized: she was drunk.”

“I was not.”

“Soooooooo drunk. I’ve rarely seen a person so drunk. And I told her so, I said, ‘You seem very drunk,’ and she laughed at me. Not a giggle, mind you, but a full-bodied, menacing laugh that smelled very strongly of ale.”

“You deserve to be whipped.”

“Do you promise? So then she asked: ‘Did you like what you heard?’ Well, I told her not particularly, trying to get inside, away from this wastrel, this midnight sin made flesh, and that’s when she told me— I’ll never forget this, she said: ‘PFFFFFFFFFFT. Think you can do better?’ Well I said, ‘Not tonight, I can’t. You forget’— as you always do— ‘I am a gentleman.’ So I helped her up to her room, tucked her in—“

“And promptly fell asleep beside me, for I woke up with his nasty hot breath in my face—”

“—ready to hex everything in sight. And that’s when I employed my miracle hangover cure. Oh, nothing to comment on that, have we? Just a little blush creeping across your cheeks? Well I don’t mind telling you: it looks divine— OW! The hangover cure is this: a quick tongue, soft and shallow, teasing at first, then ready fingers deep in the cunt. You’ve got to tease, mind you, until she’s writhing, and squirming, and cursing— cursing is good, she did that quite a bit. A hangover that size took… well it warranted several orgasms, I felt. Until she was just drifting off again, and I wiped off my face and somehow found myself leaning over to lay a little kiss on her forehead. Must’ve been the romantic in me. And I’ll never forget this, I heard her breathe the word: ‘Wow.’ Best feedback I’ve ever gotten.”

“I did not say ‘wow.’ It was fine.”

“But I’ll also never forget how small she looked in that great bed as I gathered my lute and stepped out, and how much I suddenly did not want to go.” 

“Ewwww. Seriously?”

“I’m telling the story.”

“You’re telling it wrong.”

“Darling, I never tell a story wrong. You’re speaking to the—“

“Yes, I know, bard.”

“We didn’t see each other in quite some time after that. Not until after—. Would you prefer I don’t…?”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, why don’t you take over, if I’m telling it so wrong.”

“Perhaps I’d better.”

“And we can see how you do. That’s rather in the spirit of it, actually.”

“Will you shut up? Hmm? Well, so then I was in Oxenfurt and this little weevil found me somehow—“

“My skin _chilled_ in the market, I turned, and this nightmare-made-flesh was staring at me with those uncanny eyes— right. Shutting up.”

“He _begged_ to sleep with me again. Pathetic.”

“You’ll only get me worked up by lying… unless you’re counting on that. I asked her if she thought she could do any better.”

“A ridiculous jab to get a rise out of me.”

“Well, it worked.”

“I proved you wrong.”

“You have to understand, her rooms are… just walking in is an assault on every sense but especially one’s sense of self-preservation. Fortunately I was born without one of those. The woman’s got straps to high heaven— I tell you, it was _exactly_ as I’ve envisioned heaven.”

“I thought he was gay.”

“ _How_ can you possibly justify that? Jaskier loves all—”

“Do not speak of yourself in the third person, bard. I’ve seen the way you look at—.”

“…”

“…”

“Perhaps _I_ should tell the story. Because I’m not ashamed to admit: seeing those objects of pleasure displayed… I had misread her. Most dreadfully. For now I knew a taste of what she desired, and I am so very eager to please…”

“He was so loose it’s as though he’d just come from a thorough fucking. I’ve never seen such a thing.”

“My lady, one must always walk out of one’s rooms prepared for anything the day might thrust at one.”

“I’ve never heard anyone make such disgusting sounds… his face…”

“Like a flushed, fallen cherub?”

“Like a desperate little goblin bastard, wanton and heedless to what my neighbors might think.”

“We both know you like them to hear; you love an audience, darling. I came back to visit every day for a week, could hardly walk— people were beginning to gossip. I think I rather astonished her with my vigor? But eventually…”

“Every sordid little detail. We did promise.”

“She was so clinical at first. It was thrilling, actually, feeling so used— it felt like being a hot young thing again— oh, don’t make that face, you like it, my darling old bat. Every day I’d walk in, strip down, bend over, and she’d blindfold me and inspect to see if I was ready. I get chills just thinking about it. I think she may have started regardless, but… Every day, something new. All I’d get is a few rough thrusts, fully-clothed, from behind, and then I’d feel her breath at my ear, telling me the most despicable things— never once touching my cock, making me cum just like that, then she’d practically toss me out with my clothes. Oh, you might wonder, why would I continue? How could I step down from such a challenge? I counted later; she has twenty-six different shapes and sizes, not counting the troll one, and each one a bliss, not counting the troll one, if I’m honest.”

“You are un-fucking-believable.”

“I know. So are you… OW!”

“Alright but it was _fun._ I had little else to do but rest so I tested him with everything I could think of.”

“I sailed us out in a little boat under the stars… terribly romantic—“

“And I fucked him so hard his filthy moans echoed back at us across the fjord. I actually think that made you cum harder—“

“Such imagination.”

“I levitated us—“

“Up into the clouds, right at dawn, as though she was literally taking me to heaven… then sat on my face and let me take her there as well. _Owwww_ …”

“I’ll stop when you stop.”

“I think my favorite really was that lovely slope of roof in the rain, you hit the most incredible angle… But the one that surprised me most was the bath. That’s when I realized: she thought I was looking for… for someone else. Something else. Perhaps she was, too. I mean, it was incredible, I couldn’t string together a full sentence for several hours—“

“Absolute bliss.”

“—but I knew what I had to do. The next day I arrived, stripped, knelt at her feet and asked if I could suggest something.”

“As I recall your hands were a little busier than you make them out to be.”

“I find it’s always best to prime my suggestions to you while I’m already on my knees, kissing my way up to your lovely cunt, just as a sort of _reminder_ , a positive incentive, hmm? It was the unicorn, you see. She’d never mentioned it. Oh, right, sorry. Allow me to explain: Yennefer has an actual, dead, stuffed, preserved unicorn in her rooms. Fifteen hands high— about her height, actually, at the withers, with a long, golden, incredibly pointy horn upon its brow. Perfectly, magically white. A pure animal charmed by virgins alone in the lair of a—

“A what, bard?”

“The most sinful creature I’ve ever had the delight to know and know intimately. The most ghastly woman who ever walked the earth, whose cries of pleasure could command an army of demons. We’d fucked so many times, but I’d barely touched her at this point, you see. And I had to. Not because she’s absolutely gorgeous, but because I had to know her, to know what she liked, to discover her pleasure, if she’d let me. So I suggested the unicorn. I knelt at her feet and kissed up her thick thighs and told her I wanted to hoist her onto that unicorn, tie her hands to its horn, and ravish her, if she’d let me.”

“I laughed and asked how, exactly, he planned to hoist me.”

“She smirked as she put her hands before me so I could tie them, but she let me do it.”

“I was curious.”

“She gasped so deliciously as I hoisted her over my shoulder and onto the beast, her back against its neck— like a naked, rescued fair maiden—“

“More like a trophy from a hunt—“

“Oooh, we’ll have to do that one later. A succubus?

“Bard.”

“Right. Her _face_ — as I mounted up to face her, then slid her bound hands into place, secured by the horn— she was breathless. Wet. Smirking like the devil. Completely intoxicating. Well, I ravished. You’ve got to brace the hips, you see, if you’re on a horse like that. It’s very precarious. One bad wobble and we’d all go down. Every thrust has to be precise, deliberate, carefully planned to draw out the greatest effect. It’s just a good thing I’m such an exceptional lover—“

“PFFFFFFFFT!”

“I don’t remember you laughing then. Quite the opposite, my darling. Are you sure I should go on…? Alright. I was entranced, so close, when I noticed she had tears in her eyes. Of course I immediately untied her, got her onto the bed, holding her— she pushed me away, so I just waited.”

“You were crying, too—“

“Yes, because it was so blissful. So intimate. We were perfectly in sync, a dance, one move met with another, an incredible challenge. And suddenly I could see her, really see _her_ , you know. I realized it’s what I’d been wanting that whole time. I wanted to let her see me, too, if she wanted. And just as soon as I thought that, I saw the tears form… Well, I couldn’t leave. I just waited, hoping that was the right thing to do. She came back and… and let me hold her. As you upset that I said—?”

“No.”

“Would you like to…?”

“No. Go on.”

“Well, I told her, and it’s true, the best thing after a good cry is an even better orgasm.”

“I knew he was giving me an out. I could return us to the way things had been, a competition to see who could make who cum the hardest or loudest or longest and what wild idea he would put up with next. But. He was crying, too.”

“You don’t have t—"

“No, I want to. Because I _had_ seen him. And I wanted… it was very confusing, but I suddenly knew exactly what I wanted.”

“She kissed me. She had never kissed me before, not on the lips. It was soft and tentative, a question, not a demand. You can guess at how I answered.”

“She may not guess that although your hand began caressing my cheek it quickly found it’s way down to my bum. Or perhaps she might.”

“She might guess that the kiss grew quite a bit more heated then, or that you pushed me onto my back and set yourself to ride my cock.”

“Or that you set your fingers to work at my cunt once more?”

“But I suppose no one would ever guess you’d lean into my touch, bend close to kiss me again, gently rolling your hips against me, almost tender as you held my eye. I would never have guessed you’d do that, not in a million years. And I love surprises more than anything.”

“I know.”

“She’s never stopped testing me, though. But now I make a few more suggestions. Like that succubus idea…”

“I’ve actually done that, it’s less thrilling than Eskel would have you believe. Bard, if I knew that would make you speechless I would’ve told you long ago. But you are turning the loveliest pink color. Almost good enough to slap…”

“ _Oh._ Later…?”

“Perhaps. Well, are you satisfied with our tale?”

“Oh, yes. I don’t remember the last time I’ve heard such salacious stories— you see, it’s not often anyone deems them appropriate for an old woman, when we are actually the most in need of them. But I must ask: why are you two here? Why come to Blaviken?”

Yennefer and Jaskier looked at each other, then at the old woman called Marilka. “We were just in the area,” Jaskier tried.

“Ahh. Just in the area. You are the bard, are you not, who sings of the White Wolf? Yes, I thought so. I heard your singing in the inn from here. We had quite a different name for him when I was a girl, but I’m the only one left who remembers.”

“And what do you remember?” Jaskier asked suddenly, quietly, and Marilka’s eyes glistened as she smiled.

“He’s sweet,” she told Yennefer. “Not very bright. Still eager. That’s good. I remember, _young bard_ , the same man as you. Hair white as snow, eyes like a cat. Shoulders broad and strong. Heart much broader and much stronger. Despite what we made him out to be, and what he believed he was. But what will you do, when he comes to you? For I think he will. What will you say? The both of you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, if you just aren't into Yennskier, you can skip to the next chapter straightaway. As soon as I post it in a week.
> 
> If you read that and thought, gee I wish I could read a whole lot more of this exact kind of situation, but with a lot more feelings and descriptions and actually better written? Have I got good news for you, check out [@limerental](http://www.limerental.tumblr.com)'s [the poet's wish](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24126805).


	7. just a friend?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Geralt gets fucked so good he stops listening to the junk anxiety brain. This is, sadly, a work of fiction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warning:** descriptions of sexual bodily fluids, in case that's not your thing. In this fic, it's Geralt's. Also this is the ot3 chapter. And oh gosh it's a whole lot of porn.

Geralt takes in the scene before him, eyes wide, dick hard, breath short, and then—

“ _Geralt—_ oh, fuck— Geralt,“ Jaskier moans, then cums, hard, in short little gasps into Yennefer, his eyes scrunched up; hers watching Geralt intently.

He watches as Jaskier hunches over her afterwards for a moment, kisses her shoulder _tenderly_ , which stirs something within him. Something that, before, has taken over his voice and his feet and his body and convinced him that Jaskier deserved more. Deserved his own life, a life Geralt thought he had here. Only to find… them. Together. The scent of it even more thick in his mind…

Geralt finds that scent is stoking something even deeper in him, a need, something at war with the voice that tells him to go, that he doesn’t belong here, that they deserve better than him, that they always will.

And so he finds himself standing there in the doorway.

“Well, are you coming in or not, Geralt?” Yennefer asks as Jaskier slips out of her and faces away from them, fastening his trousers. “Or would you like to show all of Oxenfurt what we’re up to?”

If Geralt could blush, he’d be beet-red now as he takes a step inside and shuts the door behind him.

Yennefer rewards him with a predatory grin, letting him watch as she turns and perches on the desk, making no move to cover any uncovered part of herself, her full breasts hanging freely, nipples still obviously aroused, and her cunt still wet and leaking a bit of Jaskier’s—

Geralt looks away, and those violet eyes find his, challenging him.

“What are you doing here?” she asks him gently.

The question stuns him.

“Perhaps you’re wondering the same of me?”

“Hmm,” he offers, the most he can form right now.

“Geralt, I didn’t— I didn’t—“ Jaskier says, turning, and Yennefer quickly yanks him by the collar.

“Jul—“ she says quietly, catching his eye, and something catches in Geralt’s throat at that. Something Yennefer notices. “Geralt has returned to see you. After all this time.”

Geralt looks at the floor, mortified, his self-loathing flaring hot and bright, smothering him.

“After all, were you two friends? Geralt? Would you call Jaskier your _friend_?”

Suddenly Geralt realizes exactly how dangerous this situation is when he realizes exactly how furious Yennefer is about—

“Or I suppose _friends_ don’t tell each other off and then disappear. Since I’m also your _dear friend_ , I should know.”

“Fuck.”

“ _Friends_ don’t let each other get kidnapped by spymasters and tortured and almost—“ Geralt watches, stunned, as Jaskier grabs her hand, seems to exchange some invisible information, and gives her a kiss. He has truly swum in deep to something he knows nothing about.

And yet, he’s struck by how much he should. How he wants to. Yennefer, his… well, fuck, he didn’t know how to start that letter anyway, but she’s the only person who’s seen the depth of him and ever understood it, ever wanted to. And Jaskier… 

Geralt looks at his face, soft with a dusting of his grey beard, the streaks in his hair, and his heart breaks all of a sudden. And he didn’t even know it was full. He’s wasted time, he’s wasted so much time—

“Please,” he says. “I’m so sorry. Please let me…”

“Let you _what_ , Geralt?”

“Let me make it up to you.”

He can’t help but notice something flash in Jaskier’s eyes at that, at his heated glance to Yen. 

“I…” Jaskier begins, finally looking Geralt in the eye on purpose. Geralt finds he is soft, and practically vibrating with hope, but also hesitant, and he finds he is desperate to never make Jaskier feel hesitant about him again.

“I’ll do anything for you,” he tells Jaskier, impulsively dropping to his knees, arms wide, laying himself bare for him. “Anything. I always have done; you know I will.”

The look on Jaskier’s face is like he’s shifted some pieces and suddenly they’ve all fallen back together, and Geralt can barely breathe, waiting for what Jaskier will say next.

He is wholly unprepared for the cocky smirk, the same playful, condescending tone to come out of his mouth.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Jaskier says. “Do you want to be very good for us?”

Suddenly Geralt is rendered incapable of speech; his mouth is dry at the sight of these two devils staring at him, Jaskier taking a step forward as though he means to touch him, Yennefer still lounging back on the desk, the image of debauchery.

Geralt feels Jaskier’s fingers lightly trace along his cheek and he glances up at him.

“ _Yes_ ,” he breathes, utterly astonished.

“Oh thank fuck,” Yennefer says, parting her legs even further. “Darling, I tried it but I don’t think that was the _role_ for me. I didn’t cum once.”

Geralt flushes at the way Jaskier cannot tear his eyes away from him. 

“That won’t do,” Jaskier says softly. “I think between the two of us, we can make it up to you, can’t we, Geralt?”

“Yes,” Geralt says, nodding.

“But if you’re determined to be truly good, you must promise us something.”

“Anything.”

“If you don’t want to do something or need a break, you must tell us. Can you do that? I know that’s hard for you,” Jaskier adds, patronizingly, making Geralt shiver again.

“I promise,” Geralt answers, his voice low in his chest.

Yennefer sits up at that and gazes down at Geralt.

“Jaskier, what shall we make him do first?”

“Strip,” Geralt thrills at the directness, the immediacy with which Jaskier orders him. He unbuckles and unfastens his armor as quickly as he can, tossing it to roughly to the floor, until he has to stand to remove his boots and trousers, exposing his embarrassingly hard erection, until finally Geralt is down to only his medallion, standing before the greedy eyes of Jaskier and Yennefer.

“Look how hard he is already, Jul. Just from listening to us in the hallway like a filthy creep. What a desperate thing.”

The full-blown force of their lust is truly something, and Geralt would look into any supernatural causes if he didn’t know… them. As he stands, they draw him up like a butcher eyeing cuts of meat. 

“Very good,” Jaskier says, circling him, and he suddenly tingles from the praise. Geralt can feel his hot breath surrounding him, dancing lightly across his bare skin.

“Good enough… that he can taste you?” Yennefer asks from the desk, and Geralt can tell how much she’s holding back a whine. The thought of eating Yennefer out like this is…

Suddenly Jaskier slaps him across the face. The stinging force of it bringing him back to the present like a bolt of lightning.

“Yes, why don’t you take good care of her, Geralt? Enjoy,” Jaskier adds, casually brushing a finger across Geralt’s nipple, making him jolt slightly from the contact, grinning evilly. “And if you’re very good, there may be more.”

Geralt gratefully gets back to his knees on the stone floor before Yen, a position he knows very well, and quickly brings her ass close to him, tossing her knees over his shoulders. He glances up at her just in time to see Jaskier stand behind her, his fingers gently teasing into her hair, running possessively down her soft throat to whisper across a nipple, just how they both apparently know she likes. Geralt smirks as he takes a first soft stroke with his tongue.

The taste of the two of them together is absolutely sinful— her familiar slightly salty tang with the sticky salty sweetness of Jaskier’s he’s missed— he can’t get enough and quickly gets distracted from the slow, teasing swirls he’d intended and sucks against Yennefer hard, his tongue delving deep within her, needy and desperate for more.

He feels her grab his head as she chokes out a whine, and he grins against her, humming slightly, remembering to pull back, to give her just enough friction to keep her on edge.

“Fuck— filthy,” is all she can get out, so he knows he’s doing pretty well.

“Good,” he hears Jaskier breathe at his ear, and suddenly becomes very aware of his throbbing cock again. He feels Yen’s heels dig into his back as she squirms beneath him.

“More—“ she demands, arching her hips into his face until his hands gently press them back, making her wait. He finds himself looking to Jaskier for instruction.

“Yes… let him take his time, darling…”

“Fuck,” she cries out, breathy. 

Geralt slowly builds the intensity, backing off and then gently, so gently pressing again, slipping a finger deep within her, where she’s already tense again, then toying just at her entrance, until his scalp is on fire from the way she’s pulling his hair. The dull ache of it creeps across his skin and sinks into him. He’s barely moving, but he’s on fire.

Suddenly Jaskier flicks at his nipple again and he hisses into her, losing his rhythm, then feels Jaskier’s hand circling his cock, and Yennefer’s shallow breath, and suddenly she’s fucking his face and cuming hard, loudly into the room, arching her back away.

Geralt does not get up. He knows better; he says obediently on his knees, carrying her through the first orgasm and not giving her any time to recover as he slips a second finger inside her, becoming more insistent.

He feels Jaskier’s hands at his hips, guiding him to his feet, a hand firmly pressing his back flat, keeping him in position for Yen. He’s trying to get his bearings, trying to stay focused for Yen, when he hears a stopper and feels Jaskier’s slick fingers drag oil down the crack of his ass. He whimpers.

“Yes, you’ve been so good, so, so good, I think we’ll have to use you a bit more,” Jaskier tells him, and Geralt can picture the smirk on his face. The sound of Jaskier slicking oil over his cock, knowing he’s gotten hard just from watching Geralt work over Yen, almost sends him trembling.

“He’s not been _that_ good,” says Yen, pressing a heel against his back. He just presses her hips down more as he laps at her, making her gasp.

“Do you want my cock, Geralt?”

He moans in response.

“You want me to fuck you?”

He feels as Jaskier spreads his cheeks, examining him, feels his cock twitching at the sensation.

“Hmm. Make her cum again and you will.”

Geralt glances up at Yen and notices she’s watching him intently— flushed and fucked out and demanding more. Jaskier slides a finger around his hole and he groans into her.

“Fuck, if I’d known—“

Jaskier glides his hand down the crease of his hip, towards his balls, and he moans again, remembering to crook a finger inside Yen.

“Geralt, we could’ve—“

Geralt feels Jaskier’s slick, hard cock pressed against the sensitive skin of his ass. The sensation alone is almost too much—

“Do you mean you’ve never fucked him?”

“Of _course_ I’ve fucked him, Jaskier.”

“With the troll one?”

Geralt hears it and his skin is on fire, because, in the time since he’s seen Jaskier, in moments he’s told himself he’s _not_ desperate for Jaskier:

“Yes,” Yennefer says. “Actually. It was beyond you, but Geralt is such a filthy little cockslut, after a few hours he took the whole thing in…”

Something inside him _snaps_ ; that deep part of him awoken, feeling Jaskier’s cock twitch against him, feeling Yennefer’s breath get more and more shallow as she gets closer and closer.

“Then this should be no problem for you, if you’re such a good little cockslut,” Jaskier croons, slipping a finger inside him, and Geralt finds he is writhing against it, making the most depraved, needy noises as he pants against Yennefer.

“I didn’t say he was good.”

“Remember what I said, Geralt. How you can get what you want.”

And he does— it’s just enough that he focuses again on Yennefer, sliding and crooking his fingers within her as his tongue focuses on her clit. He’s whimpering against her as his tongue works her over, holding nothing back, giving her the full force of him.

Jaskier suddenly grabs his hands and pulls his arms back just as Yennefer cants her hips into him, and it’s all he can do to hold his tongue steady as they use him, all he can do to keep from cuming right here, untouched, as Yennefer’s pleasure crests again and she rides it out against him, her fingernails digging into his scalp.

She settles back with a satisfied sigh and Jaskier releases his hands. Geralt melts into her touch as she gently grabs his face, then runs a hand down his chest. He moans wantonly, feels his cock leaking against his skin.

“Oh, he’s not going to last long like this,” Yennefer tells Jaskier, eyeing him.

“He’s going to have to,” Jaskier says quietly, commandingly, and Geralt knows he will do anything to obey. “Can I fuck him while he fucks you?” he hears Jaskier ask softly.

Geralt’s eyes go wide, the arousal within him churns even deeper.

“Mmmmmm,” Yennefer breathes, languidly, and pulls Geralt’s chest up to get him better in position. 

“Would you like that, Geralt?”

“I told you, he’s a filthy cockslut. He’d like it better if we both fucked him.”

It is a testament to Geralt’s witcher training that he merely sweats more profusely at this.

“You’re both going to kill me.”

“I know, but was that a ‘yes’?” Jaskier asks from behind him, tweaking a nipple.

“ _Yes_ —“ Geralt breathes, “ _Please, Jaskier—_ I want to feel you— I need it—“

He’s grateful not to say more as Jaskier pushes him forward until his cock is resting against Yennefer, quickly coated in her wetness, then presses his cock against his entrance.

Geralt finds himself letting out a whining sound and writhing back, fucking himself back onto Jaskier’s cock, desperate to take more of it.

“I’d forgotten how needy he is.”

“ _Fuck_ — fuck I missed this,” Jaskier says, gliding his entire length inside. “So good, you’re so good.”

Geralt grins and flushes with the praise, even though he knows Yennefer can see.

Jaskier gets a few slow thrusts in, just getting the feeling of it, letting Geralt acclimate to the sensation, then:

“You’ve been good— here.”

Geralt can’t move; he feels as Jaskier grabs his cock and slides it into Yennefer, and almost cums at the sensation alone. He catches Yennefer looking at Jaskier, surprised and obviously turned on, before she starts fucking against him, setting the pace for the three of them.

He barely has time to catch his breath, all he can wonder is how he got here, between these two, when Yen drags a fingernail across his nipple and Jaskier lifts his knee to get a better angle, and then all he can think is of one of Jaskier’s worst songs, the one about a fishmonger, because otherwise he’s going to cum right here and now and he will not cum before them, he won’t. He suddenly realizes he’s making noises, very loud moans and gasps as they put him through his paces, an obviously practiced pair of hunters with fresh prey. 

He feels Jaskier’s fingers slide into his mouth and sucks eagerly, writhing into it, letting Yen see him like this, then notices Jaskier’s other hand circles his cock, his thumb brushing against her, always attentive to her, and she’s making the most delicious noises so he must be doing something good. Geralt drags a hand down her body to join him, his eyes finding hers.

“Good, good, Geralt, be good for her,” Jaskier demands from behind him, still thrusting in slowly, following Yennefer’s pace, then releases his hand from Geralt’s mouth.

Geralt grins at Yennefer just as Jaskier flicks his thumb against her and she cums again, her body growing exhausted as the pleasure pulses through her. Jaskier releases the hand around Geralt’s cock and the combination of sensations, of his even thrusts into him, send him quite over the edge right after her. 

He’s barely finished when he slips away from both of them and drops to his knees again before Jaskier, looking up with his wet mouth open, only one thought in his mind.

“Please?” he asks, then watches as Jaskier wipes his cock off before resting the tip on Geralt’s tongue. Geralt sucks what he’s given eagerly, feels Yennefer slowly rise to her feet behind him. He whines until Jaskier finally presses the length down his throat and he feels the uncomfortable fullness, feels the bliss of the lack of oxygen, and hears them kissing as Jaskier fucks his throat raw, pressed between them. He moans openly and feels Jaskier jerk, hears his soft, shallow breaths, and knows exactly what those breaths mean and what he wants.

Geralt separates them, releases Jaskier’s cock and sits back on his heels as he cums, catching what he can with his tongue, letting the rest paint his body. Within seconds, Yennefer is on her knees, catching it on her fingers and shoving it into his mouth. He looks up at Jaskier adoringly, and sees his expression shift from tense and apprehensive, even guilty, into a soft smile. 

Later, after they’ve returned to Yen’s rooms, shared a bath and quite a lot of overly spicy foods. After they’ve fucked a few more times, in the bath, on the balcony, and finally in Geralt’s favorite place of all, the bed, Geralt finds himself still awake.

This never happens. If there’s one surefire way to at least a solid twenty-minute nap, it’s an orgasm.

But he finds himself gazing at Jaskier, splayed on his stomach beside him, his round ass shining in the moonlight, and Yennefer on his far side, curled into him on her side, her face relaxed and peaceful.

He could slip out quietly, gather his soiled clothes and let them be happy together.

But he finds… he doesn’t want to. And how could he, when they’ve already let him into their life like this?

He finds himself wondering how much more of their lives they’d let him share. And for some reason, looking at them, tangled up with him like this, remembering the soft ways they’ve looked at him, the way they checked in to see what he wanted, to make sure he’s okay… he thinks it might be quite a lot of life.

But then he notices the grey in Jaskier’s hair. And he wonders just how much life they’d even have left, this mage, a witcher, and a human.

“What are you thinking?” Jaskier asks him, his eyes still closed. “It was very loud, whatever it was. And I don’t want you to get any strange ideas and leave suddenly.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier shifts and slings a surprisingly long, heavy leg over Geralt’s as if to pin him down. He opens his eyes, just a breath away from Geralt now, and just waits.

Geralt has the feeling he doesn’t have to say anything at all. Or that he could in a few years, or a few weeks, and Jaskier would still be waiting. 

But he doesn’t know how long he has.

Jaskier sits up on his elbow suddenly and gazes down at Geralt, the silver streaks in his hair shining in the moonlight.

“I have the distinct feeling you’re about to ruin something.”

“Probably.”

“Not when I’ve just got you back. This last year’s been hard enough without you—“

Geralt freezes, his eyes wide.

“What?”

“What did you just say?”

“That you’ve only just come back, and I’m not about to let you—“

“No, the past year?”

“Yeah, the last year since the dragon hunt.”

Geralt’s mind. Is. Racing.

"But your hair?"

"Oh this? Bit embarrassing, really. I stopped dying it and then I actually thought it looked quite dashing. It started in a few years ago, actually... Geralt,” Jaskier says, kissing his shoulder. “How long do you think it’s been since we parted? Since you most mortally wounded my feelings until we, you know, fucked about seven times tonight—“

Geralt doesn’t know the last time that he’s smiled, but he knows he’s smiling now. Beaming.

“It’s been a year.”

“Yes, yes it’s been just about a year, my dear witcher, since you tore me from your side, since Yennefer and I… well… since we missed you.”

“Just a year.”

“Yeah. Why?”

Geralt purses his lips, thinking of the best way to phrase what he wants to say, but finally settles on:

“We’ve got time.”

“Time?” Jaskier asks, leaning over to kiss him again. “My darling idiot witcher, we’ve got ages and ages.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, my loves! To those of you who've been reading week by week, thank you! I've never done a weekly fic like this before, and your comments and kudos and support have truly made it possible!
> 
> To those reading all in one glut, thanks for taking the time to check it out!
> 
> You can catch me on tumblr @witchertrashbag for more smut nonsense. Next up I'm working on a modern AU smut in the world of porn, which I may or may not publish weekly.


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